“Yeah, I did that. Their answer was the same as yours. They didn’t notice anything, but they weren’t looking for it, either, and couldn’t say for sure one way or the other.”
“Frustrating,” I say.
“It is.” There is a pregnant pause, and then Bob gives birth to his thoughts. “If he turns up, maybe you could ask him where he was the rest of the day.”
There’s that line again, and I don’t want to cross it. “I think we need to talk about this,” I tell him. “Let’s do it over dinner. See you at six.”
“Yeah, okay. Should I bring anything?”
“Just your handsome self,” I say, hoping to eliminate the tension I can feel stretching between us. My comment garners a nervous cough that I imagine is accompanied by a rapidly flushing face. Bob doesn’t take compliments or flirting very well, but it has served its purpose and put him off topic. At least for now. “See you at six,” I say again, and then I disconnect the call, plug the phone in to let it charge, and turn to go back to my bedroom to get dressed.
I’ve only managed a single step when I discover that P.J.’s arrival is imminent. I know this because Roscoe’s head pops up and cocks to one side, and then he gets up and makes a mad scramble to the front door. Sure enough, as soon as he reaches the door, it opens and P.J. walks in.
“Hello there,” I say.
“Hi.” She walks over, studies me with an unnerving intensity for several seconds, and then says, “Maybe you should go back to bed. You still look tired.”
Classic P.J. “I am tired, but I’ll survive. It’s going to take some time to get used to my new schedule.”
P.J. considers this for a few seconds and then shrugs. “Come on, Roscoe,” she says. She hitches up one strap on the backpack she is wearing, and with no further comment she spins around, grabs his leash from the coat tree by the door, and leads the dog outside.
The two of them are gone for half an hour, and by the time they return, I have settled on what to wear for my dinner date with Bob Richmond. The man strikes me as someone who is no-nonsense, down-to-earth, and not into fancy-schmancy stuff, which is fine by me. I don’t mind getting glammed up once in a blue moon for a special occasion, but for the most part I prefer to keep things simple. Thus, I opt for a basic slacks and blouse combo, black for the slacks, baby blue for the blouse, a color I’ve been told looks good on me as it brings out the color of my eyes.
When P.J. returns, she gives my outfit a squinting, critical eye and I brace myself for another P.J.-ism. But to my surprise she says, “You look nice. Is that what you wear when you’re working with the police?”
“No, I have a dinner date.”
“With who?” She unhooks Roscoe’s leash, hangs it up, and heads for the cupboard in the kitchen that contains the dog treats.
“Detective Richmond.”
“He’s the one that made you go to the gym, right?”
“He didn’t make me go,” I say, though in a way he kind of did. He basically blackmailed me into it. “And I enjoyed it.”
This gets me an amused look from P.J.
“What?” I say.
“You did not enjoy it. You whined every single time you went, you told me how much you hated it, and you compared the workout equipment to...” She rolls her eyes heavenward for a second, searching for the words, and then quotes me verbatim. “Torture equipment from Machiavelli’s secret dungeon.”
“I said that?” I ask, knowing full well that I did.
“You did. It made me go home and look up Machiavelli. Interesting guy and philosophy.”
“You’re eleven. You’re not supposed to know about things like Machiavelli,” I tell her. “I hope you didn’t tell your parents where you heard it.”
“They don’t pay any attention to what I’m doing,” she says dispassionately. If this bothers her, it doesn’t show. “And if you think I’m too young to know about Machiavelli, you shouldn’t have mentioned him in front of me.”
“Touché,” I say, making a mental note to be more careful in the future. P.J. is extremely bright and much older mentally than her physical age. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that she’s still a kid. “And just so you know, even though I complained a lot about the exercise, I didn’t hate it. In fact, I feel better having done it and I even managed to drop five pounds.” Even as I say this, I recall how tired and out of breath I was last night trying to keep up with the cops as they hurried out to the barn and how much I hated myself for it. You were just tired, I tell myself.
“That’s good,” P.J. observes. “You are overweight.” This is said matter-of-factly and without judgment, though I still feel the sting of her blunt honesty for a few seconds. I turn away and open the fridge to hide any expression that might have leaked onto my face.
I’m expecting P.J. to return home now that she’s done with Roscoe, but instead she slips her backpack off and sets it on the floor, takes a bottle of water out of it, and then climbs onto one of the barstools at my kitchen island.
“You’re cooking?” she says, watching as I take the sausages out and set them on the stove.
“I am. Sausage sandwiches.”
I grab the folding stool I keep tucked beside the fridge and use it to climb up and get an onion and a rainbow of peppers—green, red, orange, and yellow—from a hanging wire basket above the island. I wash the peppers and then set them and my best cutting knife on the island and pull out a cutting board from a lower cabinet.
“I can slice those up if you want,” P.J. offers as I remove an apron from a drawer and put it on.
“I have time to do it, but thanks.”
“When is Detective Richmond coming?”
“Six.”
P.J. looks pointedly at the clock on the wall. “That means you only have about forty-five minutes,” she says.
I sense she’s trying to make a point that I’m clearly not seeing, so I give her a questioning look.
“You have to cook the sausages, the onion, and the peppers, and you still have to get yourself ready.”
“I have myself ready,” I say. “You even said my outfit looked nice.”
“It does. But what about your makeup?”
“What about it?”
“Aren’t you going to put any on?”
“I put on lipstick and some mascara.”
P.J. gives me a look of disappointment that borders on disgust. “I thought you said you liked this guy.”
“I do.”
“Don’t you want to impress him?”
“I don’t want to do myself up like a hooker,” I grumble.
“What does that mean?”
Recalling our previous discussion about Machiavelli, I say, “Never mind. What do you think I’m missing?”
“Well, my mom wears makeup, and she always looks nice.” This is true. P.J.s mother always looks beautifully put together. “She’s been giving me lessons on how to do makeup to enhance one’s natural beauty,” P.J. says in a sing-songy voice that makes me think she’s mimicking her mother. “She says I’m too young to wear makeup yet, but that there’s no harm in teaching me how to do it so I’ll be ready when I’m older. I think the real reason she taught me is that her eyesight has gotten bad and she can’t see well enough to do her own makeup anymore, especially her eyes. I do it for her all the time. I could do yours.”
The idea of an eleven-year-old doing my makeup triggers visions of circus clown faces. “I think I’ll be fine like I am,” I say.
P.J.’s expression turns sad. It’s such an unexpected sight that it makes my heart ache. “Okay, fine,” I say with resignation. “I hope you can do it quickly.”
“I can,” she says, hopping off the stool and heading for my bedroom. As I follow her in there, it occurs to me that this is a kid who never displays emotion, and that I may have just been played by an eleven-year-old.
Chapter 11
It turns out that P.J.’s mother taught her quite well. The child manages to artfully apply shadow, concealer, highl
ighter, and rouge in a way that makes my eyes look bigger and brighter, contours my cheeks, and yet still looks reasonably natural. She convinces me to try a different lipstick that’s more of a nude color and accuses me of wearing the brighter colors, which she claims make my lips look like the butt on a baboon, to try and draw attention away from my other features because I don’t feel confident about them. The fact that this bit of insight might be spot on irritates me, but when I see the results of P.J.’s ministrations, all is forgiven and forgotten.
When P.J. has me looking as good as I can, she settles in at the island counter with a knife and the peppers and starts slicing them up for me while I go about cooking the sausages. I watch as she sneaks small tastes of each one, her judgment clear by the expression on her face. The yellow and orange peppers pass muster, but the green and red ones do not. Knowing P.J. as I do, I can’t help but wonder how much her preferences are related to the color of the peppers as opposed to the taste.
“You better let me cut up the onion,” she says when she’s done. “If you do it, it will make your eyes water and ruin your makeup.”
This makes perfect sense to me. “Okay, but be careful,” I tell her. “I don’t want to have to explain to your parents why you’re in need of stitches or missing a finger.”
P.J. is as adept with a knife as she is with a makeup brush. Her slices on the onion are thin and perfect, and though her eyes water a little, she doesn’t look like she’s been on an hours-long crying jag the way I usually do when I slice them up.
I melt some butter in a frying pan, and then add the peppers and onions, seasoning them with pepper and garlic salt.
“Smells good,” P.J. says, hopping down from her stool. “I should go home now.” She turns and heads for the door while I struggle with an impulse to invite her to join Bob and me for dinner. The kid is a loner, and that bothers me. It doesn’t seem to bother her, however, and I keep reminding myself of that fact.
She opens the door and I hear her say, “Oh, hello.”
“Hi,” says Bob. “You’re P.J., right?”
“I am. And you’re Bob, Hildy’s date, right?” P.J.’s inflection is identical to Bob’s and I wonder if she’s mimicking him as a way of mocking him, or if she’s simply trying to pick up on his social cues.
“I am,” Bob says, sounding amused.
P.J. then pushes past him and heads home without uttering another word.
“Come on in,” I say to him, waving my utensil in the air.
He steps inside and closes the door. “That kid is different,” he says, shrugging off his jacket, which he hangs on a hook of the coat tree.
I’ve turned my attention back to the sautéing veggies on the stove, so it takes me a moment to realize that Bob is still standing by the coat tree, hands in his pockets, looking around like a lost kid.
“Come over and grab a seat at the island,” I tell him.
He does so as I open the fridge and remove two bottles of Michelob lite. I hold them up with a questioning look and Bob gives me a grudging nod.
“Bottle or glass?” I ask.
“I’m fine with the bottle.”
I set both bottles in front of him and say, “Open mine, will you?”
He does so as I stir the peppers and onions some more. “Food will be ready in about five minutes. Would you like cheddar cheese or provolone on your sandwich?”
“Provolone, please.” He takes a long swig of his beer as I get out the sliced cheese and the hoagie rolls. “It smells like heaven,” Bob says.
“Good. Hope you’re hungry.”
“I’m always hungry. That’s how I managed to get myself up to over four hundred pounds.”
“I’m afraid the sausage isn’t particularly healthy,” I tell him, “but the cheese is a lower fat variety, if that helps.”
“I’m fine with whatever you serve,” he says. “I learned long ago that if I deprive myself too much it doesn’t help my situation. So, I indulge now and again when I feel the need and compensate by working out a little longer and a little harder.”
“You sound very disciplined,” I say.
“I have to be, or I’ll backslide.” He takes another swig of his beer. “Speaking of discipline, what are your thoughts on continuing at the gym?”
I turn back to the stove and speak over my shoulder, not wanting to look him in the eye. “To be honest, I’m torn. I’ve seen a difference already in just two weeks, and that makes me feel good about it, but I hated nearly every moment I spent in that gym. I don’t know. I’ve never much liked exercise for the sake of exercise and it took every ounce of motivation I had in me to make myself go each day.” I finally turn around and look at him. “You made it kind of fun and interesting, but I won’t be able to go with you in the early mornings anymore because of the new job. I’ll be getting off work around the time you’re supposed to be starting.”
“I could change my times, if that helps.”
“No, don’t do that. I wouldn’t want you to upset your routine for me because I can’t promise I’m going to stick with it. With two jobs, it’s going to be all I can do to find time to eat, sleep, and run my usual errands.”
“You have a point,” Bob says, frowning and taking another drink. “Working two jobs has to be hard.”
His cell phone rings then, saving me from any further excuse making, so I turn my focus back to dinner making instead. I listen to Bob’s end of the phone call, hoping it won’t be anything that will force him to leave, but all he says is, “I see,” “Okay,” and, “Thanks for letting me know.”
“Dinner’s ready,” I say with a smile, turning to face him. His apologetic expression makes my smile droop. “Don’t tell me,” I say, unable to hide my disappointment. “You have to leave.”
“I should. Danny Hildebrand has turned up.”
“Where? Is he okay?”
“He appears to be okay physically. Not sure about the mental part. Someone spotted him in the city cemetery, wandering around talking to various graves.”
“Hm,” I say, frowning. Had Danny had another break from reality? “Can I go with you?”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way. You seem to have an in with the guy. Should we call his sister?”
“Not yet,” I say, thinking. “Let me talk to him first.”
Bob eyes the stovetop and licks his lips. “There’s nothing that says we can’t take our sandwiches on the go, eat them along the way.”
My stomach rumbles at the suggestion. “Good idea. Come over here and fix yourself one.”
We waste five minutes constructing our respective sandwiches and I dig out a roll of foil to wrap around them and catch drips. The sandwiches aren’t ideal for eating on the go, but we’ll have to make do. I rip off several squares of paper towel to bring along as well.
I tell Roscoe to stay and grab a jacket from the tree. Bob helps me put it on. “Ride with me?” he says.
“Sure.”
He heads out the door and I follow. His car is parked at the curb, and he unlocks the passenger side door for me before going around to his own. As soon as we are settled, he says, “By the way, you look very nice tonight.”
“Thank you,” I say, beaming a smile that seems to bubble up from my chest. I have both sandwiches on my lap and I focus on positioning them just so, so I don’t have to look at Bob. I love the compliment, but it’s making my face flush hot and I don’t want him to see it. “Do you think you can safely eat and drive at the same time? These sandwiches are best when they’re hot.”
“Wrap the foil around one end of it, leave the other end open, and hand it to me. Trust me, eating while driving is a favorite pastime of mine.”
I do as he says and hand him the sandwich. He takes a big bite out of it, moaning with delight as he chews. I wrap my own sandwich in a similar manner and join him. For the first few minutes the only sounds in the car are the engine and the noise the two of us make as we chew. At one point I see a bit of juice leak out the side of Bob’s mo
uth closest to me and I reach up with a paper towel.
“May I?” I ask.
He nods, his mouth too full to speak. I dab at the juice, and the intimacy of the action makes my face flush hot again. I turn away and look out my side window. We are almost at the cemetery already. While I enjoy living in a small town for many reasons, the fact that it doesn’t take long to get from one place to another can be both a blessing and a curse. In this case it’s a curse. Neither of us is close to finishing the sandwiches when we arrive at the entrance to the cemetery and I hear Bob sigh as he pulls into a parking spot.
“I’ll have to eat the rest of it later,” he says, looking at the remains of the sandwich in a way that I wish he would look at me. He wraps the foil around the eaten end and sets the sandwich on the seat beside him. I hand him a paper towel, and he wipes his face in a surprisingly dainty manner as I wrap up the remains of my own sandwich. I dab at my face, not wanting to undo any of P.J.’s magical ministrations. When we’re both cleaned up and done mourning our sandwiches, we exchange a look and get out of the car.
The entrance to the cemetery is marked by a large wrought-iron gate connected to a fence that extends around the perimeter of the area. I’ve always found the fence to be something of a conundrum, particularly since the gate is never closed, much less locked. So why fence off the graves? Was it to keep people out or to keep the ghosts in? Either way, it wasn’t going to be very effective. While the gate opening is large enough to drive through, there are no roads in the cemetery, only paved pathways that meander between the graves.
Most of the graves near the entrance are older ones dating back to the second half of the 1800s, when Sorenson was first founded. The headstones, which range in size from small plates recessed into the ground to two large mausoleums, are weathered but still readable. Several large oaks, including one majestic northern red oak that is rumored to date back to the late 1800s, are scattered across the ten-acre property, providing a pastoral setting, plenty of shade, and in the fall, an abundance of acorns.
There is a warm evening breeze blowing through the treetops, which are sporting new growths of leaves. The rustling sound, combined with the soft babble of the river that runs along the far south side of the cemetery, makes it a surprisingly peaceful setting. The property is on a hillside, and the entrance is on the high side. Bob and I meander along the pathways, making a gradual descent, and we have nearly traversed the length of the cemetery before we see Danny.
Night Shift Page 10